Sleepover
by OwlinAMinor
Summary: "It's only when I turn on the lights so I can find my way back to bed without tripping again that I notice the fifth thing: Alfred F. Jones is in my bed."  Oneshot.  US/UK


**SLEEPOVER**

**RATING: T**

**PAIRING: US/UK  
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**GENRE: Humor & Romance**

**DESCRIPTION: "It's only when I turn on the lights so I can find my way back to bed without tripping again that I notice the fifth thing: Alfred F. Jones is in my bed."**

**POV: England**

**IN WHICH CLAIMS ARE DISSED: If only I owned Hetalia, everything would be so much easier. Global warming would end, Justin Bieber would stop singing, England would stop trying to cook ... the world would be saved! But unfortunately, I don't, so we still have to deal with all those horrible things. Dang. (I also don't own Highly German Happenings, a comic to which "except possibly the sight of Germany in fishnet stockings, but hey, that would faze _anyone_" is a reference.)**

**A/N OR SOMETHING: Just a warning: this is my first try at writing US/UK. *cue the ominous music* **

**Well, enjoy. :)**

**(Also, thanks to my_ awesome_ friend Lilah for beta'ing _awesome_ly.)  
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**_~~~A HOTEL, SOMEWHERE IN RUSSIA, AT THREE A.M.~~~_**

The first thing I notice when I wake up in the middle of the night is that I seriously need to piss.

The second thing I notice when I wake up in the middle of the night is that it is, in fact, the middle of the night. The hotel room is completely and totally black.

The third thing I notice is that I could definitely go for some tea right now.

The fourth thing I notice is that I'm not lying in my bed.

I'm lying on the floor.

And not just any floor: the floor of a hotel. Which, due to the location of tomorrow's world meeting, is in _Russia_. Which, if you've been living under a rock or are an American or something and don't know, is BLOODY FREEZING. Abso-bally-lutely lovely.

But because I'm British and nothing fazes me (well, except possibly the sight of Germany in fishnet stockings, but hey, that would faze _anyone_), I calmly stand up, trip on a chair, curse creatively at the chair, cautiously make my way to the bathroom, finally find the bathroom, take a leak, wish I had some tea, and complain to the Flying Mint Bunny about aforementioned lack of tea.

It's only when I turn on the lights so I can find my way back to bed without tripping again that I notice the fifth thing:

Alfred F. Jones is in my bed.

"WHAT THE BLOODY HELL IS THIS?"

He doesn't move.

Well, maybe he's dead.

I pinch his outstretched arm. His hand instinctively reaches up and slaps me in the face.

Okay, then, he's not dead.

…

Damn.

I take a step back and examine the situation. The American is sprawled diagonally across the queen-sized hotel bed, face-down, one limb lying off each of the three sides of the bed not against the wall. He's tangled up in the crappy hotel sheet, and the crappy hotel blanket is piled up on the floor next to the end of the bed, completely forgotten. As for pillows, there's one under his elbow, one under his neck, and … is that one under is _arse_? Not even going to bloody _think_ about that one. He's wearing a Captain America t-shirt and boxers, and I think I might see a bit of drool coming out of the corner of his mouth. His glasses are nowhere to be seen. Alfred reminds me of a tornado sometimes; he sweeps through a place and leaves it in total destruction. He's obviously done so here.

Now, the question is: how did that bloody wanker get here?

Okay, he probably forced my door open and lay down on the bed next to me (which gives me a really uncomfortable feeling in my…let's say, _stomach_ when I think about it), then accidentally pushed me off after he fell asleep.

Unless I _let_ him in.

But I don't really want to think about that.

The correct question is: _why_ did that bloody wanker come in here?

He's not drunk; there's no smell of alcohol. He's not dead; I already checked for that. He's not hiding from someone; he would've woken me up when he came in if that was the case. He's not injured; I know him well enough to tell that he's in perfect health (unfortunately.)

I'm too tired and tea-deprived to think of any more potential explanations, so there's only one thing to do.

I lean down to the bed and poke Alfred in the back of the neck. _Hard._

The American groans, sits up, and rubs his neck. "Ow, Iggy, what was _that_ for?"

I smirk. So, the trick I used to use to wake him up when he was a kid still works now, eh? Good to know. "If I knew, I'd probably have to kill you," I answer him. "And don't call me that."

"But Iggggyyyy!" Alfred complains, completely ignoring the last thing I said. "I was having this _horrible_ nightmare with all these sparkly vampires and zombies and killer squirrels, and I thought if I went and slept with you, it'd be okay, since you[r cooking] always scared my nightmares away when I was little, and I guess I must've pushed you out by accident, I didn't mean to, I swear, and –"

Ah, so the reason is quite mundane after all. Liddle Amewica had a liddle nightmawe. I badly disguise a snigger.

"Well, that's all well and good," I tell him, "but you have to get out now."

"Aw, but Iggy –"

"NOW!"

"But …"

Oh, damn it all to America. (And by 'America,' I mean 'hell'.) He's using the bloody puppy dog eyes. Because that dolt knows all too bloody well that I _cannot bloody resist the bloody puppy dog eyes._

I sigh. "Fine. You can stay. But if you tell anyone about this – and yes, I mean anyone, your hamburgers count –"

"So you _do_ admit that they're people! I knew you'd come around some day, Iggy, I knew it!"

"Right, sure, anyway, tell anyone – or push me out of bed again, for that matter – and you will be dead. D-E-A-D _dead_. More dead than France's virginity. Got it?"

"Got it!" Is he … bouncing happily? He _is_. He's such a bloody _idiot_. Why did I agree to this again?

Oh, right. Because it's _Alfred._

_**~~~SEVERAL CURSES, PILLOW FIGHTS, AND AWKWARD SILENCES LATER~~~**_

"Iggy, tell me a story."

I glare at the American, which isn't particularly difficult, since we're sitting next to each other with our backs against the headboard of the bed. "Why should I?"

"Because I won't go to sleep until you do," Alfred says.

"You make a valid point." I stroke my invisible beard, considering the idea.

Of course, Alfred can't wait for me to consider the idea. "Iggggyyyy! Come on, it'll be fun! Just like when I was a kid and you'd tell me some British history as a bed-time story and I'd be like, 'This is soooo boring!' and you'd be all, 'Listen to it anyway, you dolt!' and then I'd listen and it wouldn't be _that_ boring, really, and I'd fall asleep and –"

"That is a _horrible_ imitation of my voice," I interrupt him.

"Is not!"

"Is too!"

"Is not!"

"Is too!"

"Is not!"

"Is too!"

"So, will you tell me a story or what?"

"No."

"I'll be your best friend!"

"That's a terrible bribe."

"I'll give you ten thousand hamburgers!"

"Even more of a terrible bribe …"

This really isn't going to stop until I tell the annoyance a story, is it? Oh, well. It won't kill me, I guess.

"Fine. I'll tell you a story," I say. Then, before he can start cheering or doing his (_very scarring_) happy dance, I start the story. "Once upon a time, there was a British king."

"OOH! OOH! Was his name Henry?"

"No."

"Was it Charles?"

"No."

"George?"

"No."

"What other British-king-names ARE there?"

"Stop interrupting and maybe I'll tell you!"

"Okay, fine, _Mum_."

"Ignoring that last word … his name _was_ Henry, actually."

_**ONE SURPRISINGLY BORING STORY LATER**_

"… And they all lived happily ever after. Well, except for when the king died not too long afterward and the country fell into debt because his son was an arse …"

I glance at the American. He's sleeping, of course; my histories never fail to do that. Though they don't usually cause him to fall asleep _with his bloody head on my bloody lap_. How the hell am I supposed to fall asleep with him on me?

Well, that's Alfred for you. He never plans ahead; just rushes in with no idea what he's going to do next. But somehow, he always manages to save the day anyway.

He's such a bloody idiot.

Such a stupid, moronic, arrogant, inexperienced, _brave_, _smart_, _powerful_, bloody idiot.

To think that I raised him … I should be ashamed of myself. Oddly enough, I'm not. I might actually be … _proud_ of him. Just maybe. You know, point zero zero one percent chance.

I look at him again. He looks quite innocent, lying there asleep like that, exactly the way he was three hundred years ago. He was so cute back then, with his huge sky-colored eyes, his pudgy face, his caramel-colored hair sticking out all over his head, the way he used to say, "England" in his little voice …

He's cute now, God damn it.

Okay. Not cute. _Babies_ are cute. _Puppies_ are cute. _Finland_ is cute. _Italy skipping around holding hands with Germany_ is cute.

Alfred is … handsome.

And then, maybe because this whole night is a repetition of something from three hundred years ago, maybe because he looks so bloody _beautiful_ lying there that I can't help myself, or maybe because – ah, who am I kidding? I know why. It's because I'm expressing my true, _very suppressed_ feelings, damn it – I do something that I'll never admit to later:

I bend down and kiss his forehead.

"I love you, Alfred," I whisper. "Always have and always will."

Smiling to myself, I carefully lift his head off my lap and place it on the bed, then lie down beside him. Even though we're in bloody Russia and it's freezing without a comforter, the bloody American has so much damned body heat that I'm warm enough to sleep.

_Good excuse to curl up next to him, Arthur_.

Oh, what the hell. He's _asleep_, for God's sake. He won't notice.

He turns around and stares at me, his bright blue eyes unusually steady and focused.

Okay, maybe he isn't asleep.

But that means that he heard – oh, damn it all …

"Did you mean it?" he asks.

I can feel my face going bright Romano-red as I splutter out a reply. "No, I didn't – I mean, yes, I did – I mean, I can't believe you actually _heard_ me, oh God – I mean – I mean – YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN, YOU BLOODY DOLT!"

I bury my face in the sheet. I know it's childish, but I can't look at him right now. I just can't.

"Arthur."

… He's calling me by my human name? In a really serious, non-Alfred-sounding voice? Am I on crack or coke or Prussia juice or something?

"_Arthur_."

Curiosity didn't kill the cat, but it _did _get the embarrassed Brit to turn around.

"What?"

"I love you, too."

"You _what now_?" I don't know whether to be startled, angry, or overjoyed. Probably a combination of the three.

"Love you," he repeats.

He grins, and _oh God is that not the most beautiful thing you have ever seen_ and then I realize that we're both lying down and facing each other with only inches between us and this is the perfect opportunity for him to –

_MMPH._

Kiss me.

Do I even have to describe to you what happened next? I mean, think about it. Two guys who just confessed to each other, in a bed together, not wearing very many pieces of clothing … do the bloody math. It's not rocket science.

What I will tell you, though, is that I topped. Definitely. Absolutely. How could a MANLY _seme_ like me NOT top? Really, your doubt in me is quite disappointing. So shush.

_**HUNGARY WAS HERE AND SHE TOOK PICTURES OF THE PREVIOUS SCENE~~~**_

Something is poking into my backside.

It's long and cold and thin and _bloody uncomfortable, damn it._

I mumble, "Geroff, wanna sleep."

It doesn't move. _Damn it all._

I open my eyes. Bright blue ones are staring into them.

"GAH!"

The blue eyes remove themselves, there is some loud, obnoxious laughter, and the thing that was poking into my backside is removed.

"ALFRED I'M GOING TO BLOODY KILL YOU!" I yell, jumping up and making a grab for my cane, which he's holding above his head. Damn that bloody wanker for being so much taller than me. And also, damn him for using aforementioned cane to _wake me up_. I'm going to have to _wash_ that thing now, since he touched it.

I chase him around the room for some time, shouting obscenities and trying to ignore his happy laughter. After a while, we both stop, panting.

We're in the center of the room, standing face to face. Or, well, face to neck. Like I said, _damn him for being so much taller than me_.

Then, I notice something:

_We're both still naked._

_Damn it all._

Alfred grins. He probably knew it this whole time and was ogling me when I wasn't looking.

Not that I wouldn't do the same.

…

Anyway.

"Gooood mooorniiing!" he sings cheerfully.

"Hi – I mean, good morning – I mean, bad morning – I mean, I hate you – I mean, I love you – I mean, OH DAMN YOU AND YOUR ENTIRE BLOODY COUNTRY –"

I really need to work on my conversational skills, don't I.

"_Arthur_."

I cease ranting about how horrible America (the country, not the person) is and look at him. He's got that weird, serious look on his face again.

"Are you going to call me that all the time now?" I inquire angrily.

He grins. "You love it."

"Right. Sure."

"You know, Arthur," he says slowly, "I didn't have any nightmares last night. After. You know."

"Weird. I didn't either."

"We should have sleepovers like this more often."

"… Are you asking me what I think you're asking me?"

"Maybe."

I sigh. "Okay. Fine. Yes. We can have sleepovers like that every night if you bloody want to."

"Yay!" Alfred does his excited-bouncing-thing, then, suddenly, jumps over to the door of the hotel room and tries to open the door.

"Where the hell are you going?" I ask, annoyed. How _dare_ he leave after that?

"Well, we _do_ have a meeting in half an hour … I think I need some clothes …"

_Alfred_? Being _reasonable_? Division by zero just became possible.

Anyway.

He's right. But that doesn't mean I'm letting him leave just yet.

"Alfred, get back here," I demand.

"What? Why?"

"I have to give you a good-bye kiss first, you bloody dolt."

Although said good-bye kiss didn't have to take twenty minutes and involve vigorous groping.

Oh, shut up. Stop reading. Story's over. Go away. I MEAN IT. God, have you not left yet? You're more annoying than Alfred, and that's hard to do …

**_~~~US/UK~~~_**

**If you read all of this, you are _awesome_. But imagine how much more _awesome_ you would be if you reviewed it! You could be even more _awesome_ than Prussia!**

**Prussia: Hey!**

**Me: It's the truth.**

**Prussia: I hate you. And if The_ Awesome_ Me hates you, you must be really, really, _really_ un_awesome_.**

**Me: Aw, love you too, Gil. ^^  
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**Prussia: D:**


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